


Where All Roads Lead

by Mount_Seleya



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Death, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:24:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mount_Seleya/pseuds/Mount_Seleya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The-Girl-Who-Lived struggles to understand the man who both loved and betrayed her mother as the end draws near.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where All Roads Lead

**Author's Note:**

> Although AU, this story contains spoilers for all seven _Harry Potter_ books, and requires having read all seven books to understand. This took me 3 years to write, having to be rewritten several times before I was happy. Thanks to Anakin_McFly for the beta read.

“Never judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes.”  
-Proverb

 

* * *

  
Blood-stained fingers set the stone dish on the desk. She stands gazing at it numbly for a few precious seconds of the less-than-hour she has left, then fishes for the vial in her pocket, emptying its contents into the dish.

 

* * *

  
Breath trails in little clouds behind a cloaked man as he trudges past rows of headstones in a moonlit churchyard. She follows soundlessly, her not-there, spectral presence leaving no footsteps in the snow.  
  
“Abbott, Wright, Montague,” he murmurs. He keeps his gaze on what is directly ahead of him, not needing to run his eyes over any of the inscriptions to know what they read, and she concludes, then, that he must have made countless such pilgrimages in his lifetime to have come to know these names like old friends.  
  
“Peverell, Rabnott, Brown, Bones...“  
  
The man turns sharply at Bones, dark, woolen cloak swishing about him with a crisp rustle. She races to keep up. Down the row, past another six graves, and he arrives at a wide black headstone engraved with two names.  
  
Falling to his knees on the snow-covered ground, he begins to slowly trace the first half of one of the names, caressing its shape from the right angle of the capital _L_ to the slanted fork of the lowercase _y_.  
  
 _Lily._  
  
His finger stops short at that final _y_. Pulling his finger off the headstone as if it has suddenly become scalding hot, he reaches into his robes, taking a torn fragment of a photograph from the breast pocket over his heart.  
  
Leaning in over his shoulder, she sees her mother’s face, laughing and alive, preserved in a captured moment.

 

* * *

  
_Her godfather’s rented room at the Wizardly Arms had been ransacked. His few worldly possessions had been torn out of his lone, battered trunk, scattered about the floor carelessly in a frenzied search._  
  
 _Under a dog-eared copy of_ Hairy Snout, Human Heart _, she found a Christmas card and part of a photograph._

_A man she recognized as her father flashed an amused grin as he watched a baby girl toddle around with an upturned toy cauldron on her head, bright, colourful candles twinkling in a charmed rhythm on a tree behind him._   
  
_The other half of the picture, which she instinctively knew featured her mother, had been ripped off and taken._   
  
_“Symbolic divorce,” she had whispered to herself._

* * *

  
The memory of snow-covered graves swirls apart like smoke. Another scene quickly forms, and she finds herself onboard the Hogwarts Express, an invisible guest in a compartment occupied by four first years.  
  
Two boys seated together are teasing a third, who is next to a girl with green eyes and long, dark red hair.  
  
Rising with an air of indignation, the girl says, “Come on, Severus, let’s move somewhere else.”  
  
The boy stands silently and follows her toward the compartment door. But one of his harassers manages to stick out a leg at just the right time, sending him toppling face-first onto the floor in a spluttering, angry heap.  
  
“Nice one, James!” the other boy barks between fits of laughter as the girl bends to help up her friend.

 

* * *

  
The Hogwarts Express dissolves. Once again, the man is kneeling in front of her, his finger pressed to the delicate silver _y_ etched into the black marble headstone, trembling despite his thick dragon-hide gloves. Taking a deep breath, he slides his finger into the open space after the _y_ , seeming to will it there like a soldier to the frontline.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I was a fool to think you’d be impressed by my stupid friends and our fondness of hexes.”

 

* * *

  
Night morphs into day again in a disorienting rush of colour. Finding herself on the shore of the Black Lake, surrounded by a jeering crowd of Hogwarts students, she realizes she’s witnessed this moment in time before.  
  
Cornered like an animal, a stringy Slytherin boy retaliates against his bespectacled Gryffindor tormenter, opening a long, bloody gash on his cheek, only to get hoisted into the air upside down a split-second later.  
  
Her eyes squeeze shut to block the sight of faded robes peeling down to reveal manky pants and knobby knees.

 

* * *

  
_Only a year ago she’d plunged her head into an unattended Pensieve and watched the scene unfold for the first time. Midway through, the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor had taken her arm in his talonlike grip and unceremoniously yanked her head out, sending droplets of quicksilver thought flying off of her two black plaits._   
  
_Whirling her around to meet his fierce glare, he had demanded, “What do you think you were doing in there?”_   
  
_“Let — me — go!” she had hissed up at him through clenched teeth._   
  
_“You had no right!” he had roared. “No right to stick that oversized conk of yours where it wasn’t welcome!”_   
  
_Lips twisting into a defiant sneer, she’d retorted, “At least now I know that scar on your face isn’t a hero’s war wound.”_

* * *

  
The churchyard materializes around her again. Moonlight glints off the lenses of the kneeling man’s spectacles as he forces his finger out of the blank space, dragging it along the smooth, serpentine curve of the adjacent capital _S_.

 

* * *

  
Snow-capped headstones melt into a large, homey room, lit by a fire crackling in a wide stone hearth. Gathering from the brazen red-and-gold of the upholstery and drapes that it must be the Gryffindor common room, she steals a quick peek at the starry sky out one of the high windows, and privately notes that Ravenclaw Tower has a much better view.  
  
Potter is sitting on a couch, looking sullen and lost as he fusses with a fat, gold-tasseled pillow. Suddenly, a bright swath of light spills across his face, and her mother marches in through a previously-hidden entryway.  
  
“Piss off, Potter,” she says preemptively, heading straight for a staircase that presumably leads to the girls’ dormitory.  
  
“Evans, listen — I’m sorry — I never meant—” Potter splutters.  
  
Stopping in her tracks, Lily spins to face Potter, disgust in her eyes. “Don’t give me that rubbish. You knew full well what you were doing today, Potter, just like you knew exactly what you were doing when you sent Sev to the Shack.”  
  
“That was Sirius’s idea! Evans, I swear, I had nothing to do with it! I saved Snape’s life!”  
  
“I believed that, until today,” Lily says, shaking her head decisively. “God, I’ve been so blind. Sev was right. You really were just playing the hero that night, trying to make yourself look good, like you always do.”  
  
“I didn’t know what Sirius was planning, I swear!” Potter insists. “If I had, I would’ve told him he was mad! That it was going too far!”  
  
“If Sev had died, you wouldn’t have cared. You made that clear today. You’re offended by the very fact that he _exists_.”  
  
“Didn’t you hear the horrible name he called you? Seems like he doesn’t think too much of your existence, either.”  
  
“Of course I heard,” Lily answers. “But that’s between him and I. It’s none of your concern, Potter. It never has been.”  
  
“How you can even speak to him now that he’s finally shown his true colours?” Potter demands angrily.  
  
“Sev was _hurting_. You? You’re just a bully. A selfish, pathetic bully who tried to win a girl by poisoning her relationship with a boy who’s been her best friend since the day he saw her fly off the swings and told her she was magic.” Then, without so much as a backward glance at Potter, Lily turns and walks away, disappearing up the staircase.  
  
“Fine!” he calls out after her. “I hope you enjoy washing his pants, Mrs. Snape!”

 

* * *

  
The firelight goes out like a blown candle, a cold, waxing gibbous moon hanging over a dark alley taking its place. Potter has her godfather backed against a wall, one hand bunched up in the collar of his threadbare robes, the other jabbing the point of a wand into the pale flesh of his thin, stubbled neck.  
  
“Stay away from her, Remus,” he growls. “Is that clear? I know you’ve been staying with them, letting Sniv feed you potions to take care of your furry little problem, but I wouldn’t put it past the slimy git to somehow tamper with them.”  
  
“You’re being completely daft,” Remus says hoarsely. “Severus hasn’t secretly fallen in with You-Know-Who.”  
  
“You’ve always been so naive and eager-to-please. So pathetically trusting it makes me sick.”  
  
“What is it about other people having things you can’t, James? It’s like you were so used to getting everything you wanted, that the first time you couldn’t, you tried to spoil it so no one else could have it, either.”  
  
Letting go of Lupin’s collar abruptly, Potter fishes a Galleon out of his pocket, letting it fall to the ground with a _clink_. “I don’t care where you sleep from now on, you flea-bitten sack of shite, so long as it’s not under the same roof as her.”  
  
A dark and feral look suddenly crosses Lupin’s face. Squaring his shoulders, he spits, “Or what?”  
  
“I might just have to send an owl to the _Prophet_ all about your furry little problem.” He smiles as Lupin turns white. “And you know very well how the Ministry has been dealing with furry little problems lately.”

 

* * *

  
The scene scatters into wispy motes that dance and twist about until they form a memory of the Headmaster’s office. Potter is slumped forward in a chair across from Dumbledore, face buried in his hands, tears trailing down his cheeks.  
  
“I didn’t — I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he chokes out brokenly. “I never — I never thought — I never knew they had _no one_ else to turn to — that Peter would have to volunteer as Secret-Keeper.”  
  
“You couldn’t have known, dear boy,” Dumbledore says, a glint of torchlight catching on his half-moon spectacles.  
  
“But I showed the traitorous rat Remus’s note — what — what he overheard that night at the Hog’s Head! I was so certain Remus had turned on us — that he was in league with Snape — feeding him our intel.”  
  
“You meant well in your heart, did you not? You wished only to secure the safety of Lily and her child?”  
  
Potter pushes up his glasses and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “Yes,” he says, straightening in his seat. “I did.”  
  
“Then take comfort in the knowledge that Lily’s daughter lives. For now, at least, she is quite safe from harm. Though I cannot say with the same certainty that she will face no danger in the years to come.”  
  
“What do you mean? You-Know-Who is gone, isn’t he?”  
  
“I fear he will inevitably return. I trust I can count on you to continue fighting to ensure Lily’s sacrifice was not in vain?”  
  
“Of course,” Potter answers.

 

* * *

  
The Headmaster’s office evaporates, then pulls back together around her, more brightly lit this time. She can tell that over a decade has gone by since the last memory from the way Potter’s mouth is now bracketed by furrows.  
  
“I am afraid that I must ask something terrible of you, James,” Dumbledore says gravely.  
  
Adam’s apple bobbling visibly, Potter asks, “What?”  
  
“You must take the Mark. The Order will need an agent planted deep within Voldemort’s ranks in the war to come.”  
  
“I — Albus, I don’t think — my life, I’d gladly lay down, but —”  
  
“Your soul shall remain your own, dear boy. There is no one else I would trust to bear this responsibility.”  
  
Potter takes a moment to weigh Dumbledore’s words. At last, he says, “If it’s the only way for us to win, Albus, I’ll do it.”

 

* * *

  
When the Headmaster’s office coalesces around her for the third time, she is greeted by the sight of Potter bent over Dumbledore, inspecting the older wizard’s withered, blackened right hand, which is resting on his desk next to his wand and a gold ring set with a black stone.  
  
“It was a very powerful, very Dark curse, Albus,” Potter says. “I don’t think it can be broken. Only subdued for a bit.”  
  
Dumbledore smiles feyly. “Much like the curse that will force you to vacate your post by the end of this term.”  
  
“Albus, I mean, I’ve managed to contain it for now, but I think it will eventually —”  
  
“— Kill me slowly and excruciatingly? No, I should rather my end be swift, painless, and by your hand.”  
  
Potter gawps at Dumbledore. “Albus, you cannot seriously be suggesting what I think you are suggesting?”  
  
“Indeed, dear boy, I am. You must kill me and secure your position at Voldemort’s right hand. I fear it is the only way that you will be able to be there at a critical moment to provide the girl with the one thing she needs most. I presume you are familiar with ‘The Tale of the Three Brothers’ from _The Tales of Beedle the Bard?_ ”  
  
“Yes, of course,” Potter responds, visibly perplexed. “My mother read it to me when I was small.”  
  
“Then you will know what rare and useful artefact was acquired by Ignotus Peverell.”  
  
“The invisibility cloak.” Potter’s hazel eyes light up with sudden realization. “ _My_ invisibility cloak.”  
  
“Yes, dear boy, there will come an hour when she will have great need for it. When she has succeeded in bringing Voldemort to his very knees and you have told her what must be done to allow the final blow to fall.“  
  
“What?” Potter asks, barely more than a whisper. “What must I tell her?”  
  
“That on the 31st of January, 1982, when Voldemort came to kill her and Lily threw herself between them, the Killing Curse rebounded and tore off a piece of Voldemort’s soul, which latched onto hers like a parasite. That Voldemort cannot die until she willingly takes the fragment of his soul she carries with her into the next life.”  
  
Potter nudges his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “So — so she must die? Just like the prophecy said?”  
  
“I am afraid so,” Dumbledore says. “And it must be Lord Voldemort’s doing. That is crucial.”  
  
Silence falls. When Potter finally speaks again, his voice is hollow, quavering. “You’ve been playing me for a fool. Here I was thinking that everything I was doing — every lie, every sin — was to help keep Lily’s daughter safe.”  
  
“Don’t tell me your schoolboy infatuation has finally matured into a grown man’s love, James.”  
  
Abruptly jumping out of his chair, Potter whips his wand out of his robes and cries, “ _Expecto patronum!_ ”  
  
A ghostly silver stag bursts from the end of Potter’s wand and darts about the room before fading.  
  
“Other members of the Order always laughed about how they couldn’t tell which Snape was sending the message until the doe opened its mouth.” Potter laughs bitterly. “What beats the perfect mate? A _soulmate._ ”

 

* * *

  
Portrait-lined walls become a moonlit forest strewn with the red, gold, and brown of dying leaves. Potter is crouched behind an oak, peering around its trunk at a short, skinny figure standing under a leafless willow a few yards away. In front of the figure is Potter’s stag Patronus, its proud antlers rising up like pointing fingers toward the place where there’s an unnatural, star-flecked gap bisecting a low-hanging willow branch.  
  
It takes a moment for her to realize that she’s looking at a memory of herself.  
  
Wand clutched firmly in one hand, the memory stands on tiptoe, reaching up toward the branch with the other. She watches her fingers close around the trailing edge of an invisible garment and pull it down with a firm tug.

 

* * *

  
_Upon her return to the tent, Luna had taken the cloak from her and tested the fabric between her fingers. “It’s not made of Demiguise fur,” she’d declared knowingly. “That tends to have a rough, woolish feel.”_   
  
_“Do you think it’s the cloak your father mentioned? One of the Hallows?”_   
  
_“Oh, yes,” Luna had said in her dreamily matter-of-fact way. “And you just found it out there in the woods?”_   
  
_“Well, strictly speaking, no. Someone lead me to it with their stag Patronus. You don’t think it was a trap, do you, Lu?”_   
  
_“If someone wanted to harm you, Alexandra, he wouldn’t have left you something so precious.”_

* * *

  
With the shock of plunging into cold water, she finds herself back in the present, her bloody, quivering fingers clutching the rim of the Pensieve as the flickering light of a distant blaze filters in through one of the office’s windows.  
  
There are too many emotions crashing around in her heart and not enough time left to sort them out.  
  
Reaching her arm down into the charmed depths of her mokeskin bag, she pulls out the cloak and throws it over her head, then begins the long march out to the designated rendezvous point in the Forbidden Forest.  
  
She tries not to look at the battle-worn faces of the people she secretly slips past on her way out of the castle.

 

* * *

  
Fear seizes up her legs when she’s a few hundred yards into the Forest. Falling to her knees, she fumbles around in the pocket of her jumper for the black stone. After a moment, she thinks better of it, and lets the stone roll out of her palm and onto the loamy forest floor.  
  
“I’ll see them again soon enough,” she whispers to herself.

 

* * *

  
She finds Voldemort standing at the centre of a clearing, ringed by his legion of black-robed, masked Death Eaters. A quiet snicker escapes her at the thought that he felt it necessary to grossly outnumber a lone teenage girl, and she decides that this will be her final tack, a kind of mocking insouciance in the place of dignified courage.  
  
Shrugging off the cloak, she loudly singsongs, “Hello, old friend!”  
  
Voldemort pivots toward her fluidly, lipless mouth curving into a hideous, gloating not-smile. “Hello,” he returns softly.  
  
“I do hope you’ll forgive me for being a bit late to the party. I know you’d just prefer me _late_. So, have at it, old chap.”  
  
“The girl who lived,” Voldemort says with quiet triumph.  
  
Time seems to move more slowly as he lifts his wand into the air, every frantic beat of her heart stretching on like a condensed eternity, and then in a flood of green, the world is washed away.

 

* * *

  
It surprises her how, in parting with her body, she also seems to have shed all of her worldly cares. As she sits on the bench in the middle of the hazy, glaring-white mirror of King’s Cross station and listens to Dumbledore tell his story, she feels nothing but a profound sense of closure and a liberating sort of detachment.  
  
“You’re saying I could go back?” she finds herself asking, when the conversation shifts in that direction.  
  
“If that is your choice,” Dumbledore answers, a hint of a smile on his lips.  
  
“And if I would rather stay?”  
  
“Then, as you say we’re in King’s Cross, I should think you would be able to, say, board a train.”  
  
The shrill sound of a train whistle cuts through the blinding-bright space.  
  
She can feel Dumbledore’s eyes on her. Waiting, expectant, the wheels in his mind spinning busily even in this place of peace, cranking round and round like the wheels on the opalescent engine that slowly pulls up alongside them.  
  
Maybe the first real choice she has ever been offered in her life must also be her last.  
  
Getting up from the bench, she walks toward the train, an ethereal breeze whipping her hair about her face.  
  
“Alexandra,” Dumbledore calls out to her.  
  
She thinks she reads disappointment on his face when she turns around to look at him.  
  
“Few have ever been given the choice that you are being granted now. There is no coming back once you depart.”  
  
She nods in understanding as she sets one foot down on the first step leading onto the train. “It’s not my fight any more.”

 

* * *

  
She doesn’t know what draws her to the second compartment on the third car. Inside of it she finds a boy in black first-year robes sitting in front of the window, watching soft, impressionistic hills drift past like water down a brook.  
  
Suddenly, he turns his tousled black head toward her, and his hazel eyes meet hers from behind round spectacles.  
  
“Hello!” he says, and it’s bright and cocky and full of reclaimed innocence. “Know where we’re going?”  
  
“No,” she replies, not unkindly. “I thought you might.”


End file.
